


The Dinner

by ReptileMistressQueen



Category: Original Work
Genre: Arrested, Blind Date, F/M, Humour, Insensitive, Temper Tantrums, adam is an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:21:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22311661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReptileMistressQueen/pseuds/ReptileMistressQueen
Summary: Hazel Winters was bored one evening until a letter arrived at her doorstep, wanting a date. Trying her luck, she went through all the trouble but the man she was seeing wasn't what she expected him to be.
Relationships: Adam Hunt - Relationship, Hazel Winters
Kudos: 1





	The Dinner

7:05 p.m. arrived as I walked into the café in my hand-me-down lavender dress. Hands shaking from a combination of fear and anticipation. I’d never been desperate enough to accept a date invitation, let alone one from someone I’d never even met, but hey, I got no plans that week and I was very hungry. 

In fact, I don’t even know how I received that invitation in the first place, or why I even accepted. We live in the age of take-out, don’t we? I could’ve been spending that night at home, reading a book with some reheated spaghetti. Argh. Missed opportunity.

Come to think about it, I don’t even know if I could call it an invitation. All it was a postcard of some German town on it hastily taped onto the back of today’s newspaper. On it was an address scribbled onto the back followed by a brief description of whoever sent it. “I’m a charming gentleman,” it started. “Music and art is my game.”

“Looking for a girl who is modest and ladylike. Meet me there 7 p.m. I will be the man in glasses. Wave so I know who you are.”

_Those are pretty minimum requirements_ , I thought. 

I was honestly in it for the food more than anything.

_Maybe I could have something to eat with some good company._

_..._

After about half an hour had passed, a plump figure emerged from the doors, shambling across from table to table, droopy eyes shielded behind shiny glasses dotting about.

 _Looks like he’s looking for someone_ , I thought to myself. _Maybe he’s on a date._

_Wait._

_I’m on a date._

_And those glasses._

_Oh. Oh crap._

In a split second, he was at my table, scanning for signs of life as I gave him a halfhearted wave. As his gaze met mine, his face immediately went pale as if he’d seen a ghost. Then he cranked his head downwards and to the side, his face now twisted into a forced grin.

_I’d better say something to break the ice before he kills me with that death stare of his._

“So... hi th--”

“Well, if it isn’t the most lovely lady in all of Chicago,” he smiled, croaking in a noise I could only describe as Bill Cosby talking through his nose. “Your name, miss?”

Taken aback, I swallowed every urge to freak out and punch him.

I _am_ getting a half-decent meal out of this, after all.

“H-Hazel,” I stammered. “Your’s?”

“I’m Adam. Adam Hunt,” he continued.

“Well... have a seat.”

_Crap. He’s_ _my_ _date. Better get at least five escape plans just in case._

_..._

A waiter rushed to our table moments later.

“May I take your order, sir?”

“I would like your finest chicken pies, my good man.”

“Certainly. And you, miss?”

“Hm... I’d like to try the spag--”

“My ladyfriend would, too, like a chicken pie.”

“...But--”

“On the double, waiter.”

“Certainly.”

_Just who does this guy think he is? I don’t even like chicken pie._

“...What was that for?” I asked.

“You’re my sweetheart, yes?”

“...On a technicality, I guess?”

_I hardly know the guy and he’s already calling me “sweetheart”?_

“Then I should know exactly what you should eat!”

_But I didn’t want flipping chicken pie..._

...

Food arrived. He wolfed down his pie and I barely touched mine. 

I pierced this awkward silence between us and asked him about his taste in music.

“So... you like music, right?” I asked, trying to spur a conversation. Assuming I could’ve gotten a normal conversation.

“Yup!”

“Like, what kind?”

“Rock, man!”

He pulls an air guitar, repeatedly writhing his fingers like an 80-year-old man with arthritis gasping for air.

“Uh-huh. What artists, exactly? Bastille? Green Day?”

“The Eagles, man!”

Another arthritis-induced air guitar.

_Crap. That band’s got to be, like, a half-century old now. Does it even count as a a rock band?_

“Well, that’s great, but--”

He then proceeded to demonstrate his singing voice.

“ **Welcome to the Hotel Calforniaaaa!** ”

His laryngitic voice scraped me like broken glass on sandpaper, his hands twitching for the third time in a row.

“...Are you done?”

“Mm.”

“Well... any other artists?”

“John Denver! Yeah!”

By which he began screeching once more, this time about the mountains of West Virginia.

_How old is this guy...?_

Stomach grumbled. Chicken pie started getting to me.

“I... need to go to the restroom,” I muttered.

“Hey, wait.”

He hands me a small box.

“While you’re in there, could you slip these on?”

“Uh... okay.”

I did my business shortly afterward, only remembering the box after washing my hands.

_Oh, yeah. I wonder what he wants me to do with this._

I contemplated for a moment, then I opened it, revealing...

...brown contact lenses.

_Huh._

I slipped them on and went back to my table.

As I set down, he began to stare into me. Then he started shivering. 

Convulsing.

Sweating.

“Are... are you alright?”

“I, uh, need, uh, **I HAVE TO GO TO THE TOILET!** ”

He rushed out of his seat and into the men’s room door, trampling over every table in his path.

Minutes ticked by, and sooner, he was back, wiping his hands repeatedly.

“What happened back there?”

“I’m sorry... I just get lost... in brown eyes.”

It took me a moment to swallow that statement.

“So... you like brown eyes?”

“Mm,” He nodded, quickly, as if someone punched him in the back of his head.

“Can I... take these off?”

“No.”

“Oookay then.”

...

Time passed. Some odd remarks were had. The obvious generational gap grew even wider. Every attempt I made at starting a normal conversation ended up getting shot down by a remark about something else. Anything I asked that he might be interested in was, too, shot down, with a very indifferent “Eh, it’s okay.”

Then I noticed he began staring off to the side.

No, wait, he was staring at me.

At my arm.

“Hey... your arm...”

_Ah, crap. Here it comes._

“Why does it look... plastic?”

_I knew this was coming._

“Well, I... lost that arm. This one’s a prosthetic. That’s all you need to know.”

“So... how do you move?”

“I... What?”

“How do you move?”

A drop of cold sweat fell from my face.

I could only stare at him as time froze for what felt like hours.

“...You’re... disabled, right? How do you move?”

“W-well... I...”

“What’s it like being a paraplegic?”

“Th... that’s not what paraplegic means--”

“Do you consider yourself an inspiration?”

“Please, just let me sp--”

“How did you lose your a--”

I punched him in the face.

Hard.

Hard enough to leave a mark.

“JUST **SHUT UP!** ”

He fell silent.

“God, I can’t stand you. I don’t even know why I even agreed to this. How anyone in their right mind could be so **fucking** dense is beyond me.”

“But...”

“ **Shut up**. I’m not done talking.”

I took the contact lenses off my eyes and threw them to the ground.

“All you’ve done this entire date was do nothing but try to **fucking** control me. I haven’t even had a single say this entire dinner. I didn’t even **HAVE** dinner. That chicken pie was so **fucking** repulsive that not even the toilet wanted it. And your taste in music is just... my god, what are you, 60 years old?!”

He scoffs.

“You know what? I’m done. You’ve pissed me off beyond relief.”

I pulled out my wallet.

“WAITWAITWAIT!”

“What?!”

He pulled out _his_ wallet.

“I can’t let such a wonderful lady like yourself go Dutch!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“PLEASE!”

I took a deep breath.

“Fine,” I replied. “Go ahead. It’s your money.”

Opening his wallet, he revealed that it was completely empty.

“...Huh?”

“YOU DIDN’T BRING FUCKING CASH?!”

“B-but.. I did!”

He opened up a pocket on the side of his wallet and took out a penny.

“A FUCKING PENNY?!”

“J-just.. give me time!”

He took out another penny.

And another.

Within a minute he began stacking a large mass of pennies.

My patience began wearing thin.

Eventually, he runs out of pennies.

“Oh my god, you’re such an **idiot**.”

In that split second, his head cranked upward and he began staring at me, his face turning red.

“I am NOT **AN _IDIOT!”_**

His rage began overpowering mine as he knocked over his penny amassment, scattering the floor with coins.

In a slow flourish, he lunges at me, arthritic hands reaching for my neck, the only thing stopping him from strangling me being my forearms against his chest.

I flinched.

“Nngh! Get your goddamn hands off me!”

“ ** _WHY SHOULD I?!_** ”

“ _What the hell is wrong with you?!_ ”

His hands start trembling. His strength is caving in.

Eventually he weakens enough for me to shove him off me and into the table.

In one fell swoop, he grapples off the table and lunges back towards me, only to trip on his coin collection and send himself into a wall.

Tears of anger rolling down from his face.

“ **YOU BITCH!** ”

“I’ll only ask you again. What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

“ **YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND ME!** ”

“I think I damn well know what kind of a twisted person you are. You’re nothing but a douche who lowers others to make yourself look bigger.”

He paused for a moment.

Then he reached into his back pocket.

“How... **DARE YOU!** ”

He proceeds to whip out a _fucking rusty_ _pocket knife._

Once again, he lunges for me, this time in even blinder rage than before.

“ **SAY HELLO TO MY OLD CHUM!** ”

Repeatedly, he makes stabbing motions toward my neck in a vain attempt to decapitate me with a 3-inch blade, swinging his arm wildly.

Grabbing onto his wrist, I twisted his arm gently enough to let go of the knife, then kicked it away from him.

Once again, he tries to get me into a chokehold.

By now, everyone else has either ran off or crowded around.

Someone calls the cops.

His concentration breaks as he hears the phone call and he begins reaching for the phone.

Grabbing his leg, I trip him, dragging him to the corner where he eventually stopped aggressing, exhausted from his own actions.

I caught my breath.

“You... have issues.”

In between sobs, he began to catch his own breath.

“Nngh... how dare you call me an idiot, huh? How smart do you think you are, huh?”

“How smart do _you_ think you are?”

He fell silent again.

“For the third time on a row. What is your problem?”

“C’mon, man! I just have anger issues, okay?! It’s in my genes!”

Something in me inclined me to hoist him by the collarbone.

“Listen here, dipshit. What you’ve done today was obnoxious, disrespectful and downright irresponsible. No amount of genetic bullcrap can even come close to explaining your mindless demeanor.”

His attempts to speak were interrupted by my knuckles against his larynx.

“Now why don’t you calm down, and grow. The _fuck_. Up.”

And in an instant, I dropped him, and walked away.

All anger vented.

No regret left behind.

Quiet sobbing behind me.

...

Police questioning followed.

This wasn’t even the first case, either. Adam had a police record of aggravated assaults, third degree murders, even arson at one point.

Neither was I the first. Apparently his blind date escapades have been occurring for at least the past two years and this was the first time he walked out empty-handed. At least two of his ex-girlfriends went missing. No one knows where they went or whether or not they’ll be seen again.

Adam Hunt pleaded mentally unstable, listing quite a number of disorders.

Antisocial personality disorder. Schizophrenia. Disintegrative disorder. Psychosis.

He cited an abusive childhood. One plagued by over-expectations. Pausing at brief intervals to catch his breath. Tears constantly rolling down his cheeks.

In the end, he was sentenced to five years in prison.

All I have to say is good fucking riddance.


End file.
